


the forty-thousand year old virgin

by copacet



Category: The Broken Earth Series - N. K. Jemisin
Genre: Devotion, F/M, Interspecies Relationship(s), Living statues, POV Nonhuman, POV Second Person, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 07:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19662754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copacet/pseuds/copacet
Summary: You are watching the sky darken and wondering how many will die in the desert crossing when Hoa comes to you, his constant presence in the ground under your feet shifting into the physical appearance of a white-veined black marble statue of a young man facing the horizon with his hands clasped behind his back—No. No, that isn't right. For this, of all moments, I cannot distance myself from my own actions. Allow me to begin again:You are watching the sky darken and wondering how many will die in the desert crossing whenIcome to you.





	the forty-thousand year old virgin

You are watching the sky darken and wondering how many will die in the desert crossing when Hoa comes to you, his constant presence in the ground under your feet shifting into the physical appearance of a white-veined black marble statue of a young man facing the horizon with his hands clasped behind his back—

No. No, that isn't right. For this, of all moments, I cannot distance myself from my own actions. Allow me to begin again:

You are watching the sky darken and wondering how many will die in the desert crossing when _I_ come to you. I see that you have gone off by yourself after dinner, one cool and ashy evening in the weeks following the destruction of Castrima, and I come to you. You are sitting on a rocky outcropping near enough to camp that you can see the fires beginning to pop up, though of course you do not need to _see_ to know what is going on. In a few days, the group will reach the desert. Everyone has spent every spare hour since you stopped for the day gathering and rearranging supplies in preparation for the upcoming leg of what has already been an arduous journey, and you are feeling somewhat useless, with your one arm and inability to use your orogeny without risking further limbs. 

“This is going to be bad,” you say aloud. 

“Yes,” I respond. You’re right: the journey _is_ going to be bad. Worse than it already has been, and that is saying quite a bit. I could save you the experience—whisk you under the earth and to the other side of the desert in an instant, while your companions stagger onward trying not to drop dead of hunger or exhaustion—but you don’t want me to, so I won’t. You are a survivor, though, and you will make it through alive where many of your companions cannot.

“Fuck,” you say. You look over at me. “I hate the waiting.” You don’t just mean the preparations for the desert—with every day that passes, your desire to go to Corepoint and find your daughter grows more intense.

“You could go to Lerna’s tent,” I suggest. “He could make you less tense.”

Your mouth twitches. You like Lerna, and you are attracted to Lerna, but you aren’t convinced that an affair with him is a good idea, you being very distracted with this saving-the-world business and knowing that you will likely be dead by the end of it. You will go to him, in time. In a short amount of time, in fact. But not yet. You shake your head.

I am rarely spontaneous, but something about this quiet evening has made me daring. “I could make you less tense,” I blurt.

You stare at me. The melancholy is wiped from your face, replaced by genuine surprise. “Do stone-eaters _do_ that?”

“Not as a general rule,” I admit. Actually, not ever, so far as I am aware, though admittedly I do not keep close enough track of my siblings to say for certain. And for the sake of full disclosure: “I cannot guarantee I will be any good at it.” 

You laugh, and the stress relaxes from your shoulders. The sound relieves some of my own tension: whether you accept my proposition or not, this conversation has been a success.

You look at me, considering. You like me. You trust me. You have grown to rely on my constant presence. I understand that none of that means that you are attracted to me. I consider myself to be human, still, but I am aware that I do not look it.

You tilt your head to the side and look at me with piercing eyes. “Why?” you ask. “What would you get out of it?” 

There are many ways I could answer your question. I could tell you that it would be a novel experience about which I am curious. That would be true. I could point out that only recently, you shared with me the greatest intimacy available to my kind when you allowed me to consume your arm and breast (and perhaps it is wishful thinking, but I feel that the experiences have brought us closer), so it would only be fair for me to offer you _your_ preferred form of intimacy. That would also be true. But neither would be the whole truth, for I have gone many millennia without desiring firsthand experience to satisfy my curiosity on this particular subject, and I have never wanted our relationship to be one of duty or obligation or favors returned. What did drive this sudden whim, then? 

The answer is simple, at the core of it. “It pleases me to please you.”

“Huh,” you say, and look at me again. I wait patiently for you to make your decision. I want you to do what will make you happy; I would be content to watch over you and keep you safe while you found that happiness with Lerna or whoever else. And yet...selfishly, I hope you will choose me. Even just for tonight.

“What the hell,” you say eventually. “Why not?” 

Why not, indeed? I curve the corners of my lips upward.

You offer me your hand. I take it between both of mine, careful not to exert too much pressure, and in an instant I move us out of sight of the camp. Once we are above ground again, I find myself facing you, uncertain what to do next, for my offer was an impulsive one, and it now occurs to me to consider the logistics. 

I am well aware of how this works between two flesh-and-blood humans; I have witnessed a great many sexual encounters in my forty-thousand years. Indeed, I have been witness to a great many of _your_ sexual encounters. (Does that bother you? Sorry. It does sound voyeuristic, upon reflection. I hope you understand that the intentions behind my watchfulness were never prurient.) But though my form is masculine, I don’t have any genitals. I could give myself some; until now, I’ve chosen to appear clothed, since I believed it would make you the most comfortable. The clothing is only stone like the rest of me, though, and I could easily reshape it. You do like penises: I know you liked Innon’s, and Jija’s as well, once upon a time before the end of the world. Should I make one for you? Hmm.

You, decisive as always, distract me from my musings with action. You step towards me and brush my face with your fingers. I do not feel it, and you guess that, because your next touch is stronger, gripping my chin and the side of my cheek with your remaining hand. This time, the pressure registers.

I hold still. As still—do I even need to say it?—as a statue. I cannot move as you do. I can reshape myself in an instant, into any position I choose. This is convenient in many situations, and more efficient than the movements of flesh, but if I were not careful, I could hurt you. I can also move my body in a way akin to yours—but slowly, very slowly. Slowly enough to unnerve most of your kind. You have not acted unnerved by it, recently, and I will have to hope that remains the same. You run your hand down my chest and up my arms, gripping firmly here and there at my unyielding skin before moving on to touch somewhere else. I feel it. I feel...something. 

But I do not wish for this to be a one-sided endeavor. I want to touch _you._

Again, I consider mechanics. I could create myself an erect penis, I suppose, and lie on the ground while you lower yourself upon it. But the thought lacks intimacy, somehow; it seems unfair to make you do all of the work, and besides, I cannot imagine that bouncing yourself upon my stone body would leave you with more pleasure than pain. And I am certainly too heavy to rest any part of my body on top of yours. No, I have a better idea.

I kneel in front of you. Then I need to sit and wait while you remove your pants and underclothes, since it would take me all evening to undo the fastenings and slide them off you without leaving bruises. I do so patiently; time on this scale means very little to me, as a general rule, though it is surprisingly meaningful now that I am spending it kneeling at your feet, and I do not get lost in thoughts of the past as I so often do. You rest a hand on my shoulder as you undress, for the loss of an arm has left you physically unbalanced.

Eventually, you are unclothed from the waist down. I look at you. I have seen you naked before, though not from this close a range, nor from this angle. Your legs are muscular, though thinner than they should be thanks to the food shortages, the skin brown and scarred and beautiful. They join together in a thicket of wiry black hair. 

You say my name. I wonder how much time has passed. Apologies if my examination was overly prolonged to your perception; I am not much good at judging these things. Luckily for me, you sound amused rather than annoyed, if a bit impatient. 

I bring my upraised hand to just below your thighs, two fingers stretched horizontally while the rest remain in a fist. You lower yourself the last few inches, carefully; I stretch my other arm out in front of me, raising it high enough that you can grab it for stability. One of your kind would be unable to hold the position for long, but I have no muscles to tire; I could hold it there indefinitely if I wished to. Now that you are no longer concerned about falling over, you begin to move, rubbing yourself along the lengths of my fingers, _grinding_ against the tips. Again, I remain utterly still, trusting you to use me to find your pleasure, not entirely trusting myself to move without hurting you.

It works. You become wet: I can see my fingers glistening with a transparent substance as you move over them. Good. You have noticed the same thing, and raise yourself a few inches, allowing me to adjust the angle of my fingers until they are closer to vertical than horizontal. You hover over them. I wonder if two was the correct number—would this be more comfortable with only one? More filling with three? But before I can second-guess myself into withdrawing, you are lowering yourself onto my hand. Your eyes close, and you moan. I am fairly certain it is a noise of pleasure, and not of pain. You move yourself up and down along my fingers, small motions at first, and then larger ones.

I have wanted to be part of you from the moment I met you. I did not, admittedly, ever expect that desire to be fulfilled in such a literal joining as this. I wish my fingers were sensitive enough to feel the texture of you. I wish, I want, I _yearn_ —but don’t I always?

I take a chance and curl my fingers. Just slowly, just a little. You gasp. I smile.

I grow bolder, gradually shifting my fingers inside of your body as you ride them. You start swearing. I think that it is the good kind of swearing.

Outside your body, I adjust my thumb until it is brushing against your folds, near to the nub that I see but cannot feel. You take the cue and rub against it, hard enough that I can feel the pressure. You are breathing faster and more harshly than you were before.

If I live for eternity, I will always remember the way my name sounds passing through your lips as you shudder at the end, gripping my arm so tightly that I worry you will give yourself calluses. The satisfaction coursing through me is not physical, but it is satisfaction nonetheless.

You sink to the ground, afterward, leaning against me as you catch your breath. You turn your head to look up at me. “Thanks,” you say—and then you look up further, and frown at the gathering clouds, ominous even against the darkening sky. Acid rain will begin falling shortly.

Ah well. Nothing can last forever, as we both know very well.

I return you to the encampment. Tonkee and Hjarka are already lying next to each other on their bedrolls. Lerna is still off treating patients and not here yet, which is good, because that would be awkward, even for me. I do not think that I imagine the fondness in your gaze when I bid you goodnight.

I take up my position a short distance away from your group, where I will stand silent guard until the break of day. I do not sleep, of course. But I hope that _you_ sleep well, my love. Take your rest when you can get it.

I will still be here when you wake.


End file.
